


guide me towards salvation

by kamwashere



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Obnoxious Pet Names, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Tinsley lives in a farmhouse and Ricky ruins his crops by bleeding all over them: the fic, no beta we die like men, tinsley is done with everyone's shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamwashere/pseuds/kamwashere
Summary: ‘You know, you could have just knocked.’‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ The man yelps, startled. He tries to stand up and instantly falls over, howling in pain. In normal circumstances, Tinsley would have found that hilarious but the man obviously seems to momentarily forget he was bleeding to death. He winces sympathetically instead.The man looks up at him, blinking his dark brown eyes at him, ‘I thought you were a ghost,’ He wheezes out pathetically.‘Thanks,’ Tinsley replies dryly.-C.C. Tinsley is a resigned private investigator plagued by the past. He reinvents himself in a quiet, little town—confident that nothing will ever disturb the life he’s trying to build. Then comes Ricky Goldsworth, who keeps trying to make his way through Tinsley’s life, one injury at a time.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 24
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

“Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”  
 _― Oscar Wilde_

* * *

Tinsley eyes the small farmhouse from where he's standing behind the worn down looking white fence. For the first time, it sinks in to him that this was going to be home for him now. It looks like it has seen better days; the paint is all but chipped and faded, some of the windows are smashed and broken, and it probably isn't equipped with electricity. But the expanse of land that surrounds the house, though it is not as vast as he would like, looks fertile and rich. Not that he’d know shit about farming. For a moment, he imagines himself growing little carrots and potatoes. He can’t decide if he likes it or not. It had cost him every penny he had in his bank account to purchase this spot of land in Virginia.

It's just the way he likes it. Nothing and no one to bother him. The town is quiet. Undisturbed. 

How wrong he was.

* * *

When Tinsley steps on the porch, the wood under his feet creaks dangerously. Up close, the house looks even shoddier but not completely uninhabitable. He reaches for the keys in the back pocket of his denim jacket, balancing the box he's holding with his propped up leg. When he opens it, the inside is almost bare and neat, but filthy. It was an open space; the kitchen thankfully has a sink and a counter, though caked with months worth of grime. There are also shelves, also barren. In front of the kitchen counter is a sturdy-looking wooden table, no chair. In the middle of the room, next to a door (which, if he's guessing correctly, the bedroom) is surprisingly, a brick fireplace. To Tinsley's left is presumably the living room, which is void of anything except for dust and a water stain on the floor.

He dumps the ratty, old duffel bag filled with clothes carefully from his shoulders, still holding on to the box he's currently clutching in his arms. He drops it onto the considerably cleaner side of the room near the doorway. Tinsley walks towards the bedroom, unlocking it, and is surprised that there's a bed. It's frayed, with its wooden bed frame (matching the aesthetic of the interior of the house) and is probably too short for his long limbs but it will have to do. He gingerly places the box on the wooden floor and lifts the mattress up, checking for any weird, disgusting stains and sighs in relief when he finds out there are none. 

That afternoon, he cleans the floor, discarding any debris and brushing the walls clean off webs and dust. Whenever there are scraps of tools or any useful thing he finds lying around, he tosses it at the small shed outside the house. The next thing he clears up is the bedroom, which is fairly easy since there’s not much to clean. He dumps his things in the small closet, and some of his more personal belongings. He moves on to the bathroom, scrunches his nose at the acrid smell, and decides that he would face it tomorrow (with some bleach, maybe.)

The next day, Tinsley decides to visit the town. He buys hand tools that he doesn’t already have, mostly keeping to himself and avoiding any eye contact with the store’s employees. He exits the hardware store and spots a small animal shelter just right next to it. He pauses. A memory of ginger fur zooming through the room, and echoes of laughter suddenly jolts through him. Tinsley shakes his head and moves on, strides to the direction of the small grocer across the street. When he opens the door, the man behind the counter immediately gives him a big smile, chirping ‘Morning!’

He tries not to grimace as he nods back to the other man. He’s a good few inches shorter than him. He’s thin and lanky, with dark hair and even darker tapered eyes. He quickly walks to the direction of frozen goods and then, alcohol. He carefully chooses the items he puts on his basket, minding his budget. He really needs a job soon. Satisfied, he goes back to the counter and is greeted once again by the cheery cashier. Tinsley doesn’t say anything, instead opting to look at the window rather than in front of him. 

Nevertheless, the man still strikes up a conversation. ‘Hey, I haven’t seen you around here.’ 

Tinsley forces a smile. ‘Just moved.’ 

The man brightens, ‘Oh, where from?’ 

‘How much?’ He says instead, all politeness. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, the man visibly deflates but still maintains a smile as he scans the items and says his total. When finished, he bags them up. Tinsley takes his bag and turns around to leave. He probably came off as rude and he feels a little bad. Just a little.

* * *

When Tinsley gets back to his little farmhouse, he finally gets the chance to stock up his mini-fridge, finally eating a real meal instead of coffee and crackers. After, he starts working on repairing the splintered windows and creaky furniture. The bathroom is a more arduous work, taking half of his day but at least he feels comfortable enough to take a shit in the toilet now.

He looks around and thinks to himself that this isn’t such a bad idea.

That night, he crashes his weary body to bed, though it’s short-lived because he has a nightmare. 

It’s not so bad, at least not anymore. Since last year, he’s been plagued with blood-soaked night terrors. The first couple months were so bad that he had gotten complaints for waking up his neighbors with his screaming. As it goes on, the nightmares became the new norm for Tinsley. 

It was the same one every time. 

The nightmare starts out pleasantly at first; to her dancing slowly to soft music playing from the record player, her dark curls bouncing as her heels glide through the floor. Then, a deafening shot. She turns to Tinsley with her mouth parted and her green eyes, the light behind them slowly fading. Her soft hands are clutching the blood soaking her red dress. Tinsley tries to walk towards but his legs are frozen. He tries to run but his whole body solidifies. 

In his nightmares, blood starts pouring from her mouth as she falls to the ground. In his nightmares, she would always say one thing before she dies. 

His name. 

She says it so delicately, so _reverently_. It almost makes him think he has nothing to do with her death. Almost. 

In nights like these, he would wake up screaming himself hoarse, stare blankly at the ceiling, light up a cigarette, and lose all hope of going back to sleep again. 

Clearly, fate has other plans. 

He’s on his third cigarette, massaging his aching temple when he hears a thump from outside. Tinsley looks up, startled when he hears a significantly louder crash, followed by a string of expletives and a drawn out groan. He gets up from his bed, snuffing out his cigarette with his bare feet. Creeping to the living room, he snatches the wrench on top of the dining table. Tinsley opens the door as silently as he could, thanking himself for fixing the once-creaky door and his wrench-turned-melee-weapon. Cautiously, he lowers the wrench when he sees what… or rather who is outside. 

A clearly injured man is sitting on his porch, trailing blood everywhere. His eyes are shut, groaning as he clutches his bleeding side. He looks dangerously pale. Tinsley feels strangely awkward just standing there so very casually, he says, ‘You know, you could have just knocked.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ The man yelps, startled. He tries to stand up and instantly falls over, howling in pain. In normal circumstances, Tinsley would have found that hilarious but the man obviously seems to momentarily forget he was bleeding to death. He winces sympathetically instead. 

The man looks up at him, blinking his dark brown eyes at him, ‘I thought you were a ghost,’ He wheezes out pathetically. 

‘Thanks,’ Tinsley replies dryly, ‘Come on, get up.’ He says, helping him get to his feet. He knows how idiotic this looks, letting a complete stranger into his home but Tinsley is far too tired to think straight. 

He only hopes it doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love me some tinsworth! 
> 
> so this is going to be different from usual tinsworth fics. tinsley is not a PI anymore, ricky is *SPOILEr* but still an asshole. sorry for the cliffhanger-ish btw,,,
> 
> ALSO yes, steven lim IS kwo wey which is actually his middle name LOL. i realised steven doesn’t have an alias and i wanted to include him in the fic, bc i love him 🥺 n e ways i have plans for these dynamics.
> 
> anyways, i hope you liked this. leave a kudos or comment if you did :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he looks back, he sees a familiar figure trudging through the mud. Tinsley squints his eyes, cursing softly for misplacing his prescription glasses. As the figure inches closer, he realizes it was the stranger from weeks before. He looks even worse than before, and he’s clearly bleeding again. He looks heavenwards, muttering, ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake.’

The man hobbles as Tinsley leads him to his couch, hissing softly when he sits down. ‘Keep your hand there,’ he advises while he dashes to the sink and fills the basin with water. He goes to his room to look for the first-aid kit and a clean towel but settles for an old t-shirt. 

When Tinsley returns, the stranger’s face is forcefully scrunched up. He grabs the basin and dips the cloth in it. He sits closer to the stranger, whose back is resting on the arm of the couch. He pries the man’s hand off the wound, ignoring his soft intake of breath. Then, he carefully peels his bloodied dress shirt, revealing skin glistening with sweat and punctured, red flesh. It doesn’t look too deep, which is a relief. ‘At least, it’s clotted already,’ Tinsley whispers absent-mindedly.

The stranger mumbles incoherently, and Tinsley shushes him. Very gently, he wipes the drying blood around the wound. He must have truly lost his mind; nursing some shady man. Selma has always said that he was too kind, too. His grip tightens as he washes the cloth but he focuses on carefully dabbing the wet cloth on the stab wound, cleaning it as best he can. Being a private investigator for the most part of his life, he gets into different types of tussles even though he tries to avoid it. It also taught him to dress his own wounds. It is a surprisingly dangerous job, he just never thought it would cost him everything. 

Satisfied, he sets the water diluted with blood and the cloth aside and puts the first-aid kit on his lap. He pinches a small dot of Neosporin to his finger, which is already running thin. After he applies the ointment on the wound, he covers the wound with a gauze. He stares at the distance, mind blank until he snaps out of it and turns to the stranger who has already fallen fast asleep. 

Tinsley looks at him properly and immediately notices how handsome he is. His tousled, jet black hair is parted to the side and almost reaches his baggy eyes. His eyebrows are full, and his lashes are short but thick. The stranger is all edges; his cheekbones are jutted out, his jawline sharp. The bridge of his nose is long, sticking out at the tip. Lastly, his lips are a little chapped and pale, but it’s plump and—

Tinsley quickly stands up, blinking rapidly. He palms his face, which feels a little a little warm. He scratches his scruff, looking at the stranger once more. He’s wearing a dirty, bloody white dress shirt with the first three buttons undid, black pants, and expensive-looking leather shoes. He’s also wearing several rings, and a golden cross necklace on his exposed neck, his skin golden under from the light—

He shuts his eyes, his hand forming a fist. Tinsley has long suspected that he was also attracted to men, but it isn’t something that he has fully explored, and he never intends to. Not after her. Not after Selma. 

This stranger is obviously an attractive man, but he is obviously a dangerous one. Tinsley doesn’t want that life anymore. 

* * *

The man left before Tinsley woke up. He did not learn his name. 

Tinsley did not see him again. Or so he thought.

* * *

Tinsley took a job at the town’s local coffeehouse two weeks after that.

It’s quiet, and customers usually mind their own business. Plus, he loves coffee. So, he figured, why not? It isn’t all that bad. Brewing coffee has become therapeutic for him, and the pay gets him through the day and buys fertilizer for his baby potatoes. He has no cause for complaints. He starts his morning with his own shitty coffee and a cigarette, sometimes when he feels like it, actual breakfast like eggs and toast. He waters his little farm; making sure his potatoes, cucumbers, and tomatoes are growing nicely. (He thought of tending to chickens but ultimately decided not to, for he knows that he will probably just accidentally kill them.) Then, he spends half of the day in the coffeehouse, serving lattes and Americano’s to locals and newcomers. After that, he goes straight to his home, has vegetables and beer for dinner and calls it a day.

It's a pleasantly hot, Virginian weather today. A bit of a slow afternoon at the coffeehouse. There’s a couple or three people inside, and Tinsley is reading a novel behind the counter. He was about to doze off when the door suddenly opened. Tinsley snaps awake and puts his book aside, plastering a smile on his face, ‘Hello, may I take your order?’ When he looks at the customer, his eyebrows raise in surprise. It was the cashier from the grocer before. 

‘Do you guys have matcha—‘ He says but pauses, looking at Tinsley. His lips form a big smile. ‘Hey, it’s you! I didn’t know you worked here.’

Tinsley smiles, a little uncomfortable. ‘Just started.’

The cashier smiles wider. ‘How’s the town treating you? I’m Kwo Wey, by the way.’ 

‘Good,’ He nods, not really knowing what to say. His brows furrow with worry at accidentally mispronouncing his name but he sticks his hand out, out of sheer politeness. ‘C.C Tinsley.’

Kwo Wey shakes his hands enthusiastically, eyes narrowed in slits and smiles with his teeth. He seems to sense Tinsley’s worry so he repeats his name. ‘It’s Chinese.’ He explains. 

‘Right,’ He clears his throat, ‘Your order?’

‘Oh!’ He ends up ordering some fancy, overpriced coffee. (He asked for green tea first, and Tinsley just stared at him blankly.) While he made his order, (His co-worker fucked off to God-knows-where and hasn’t come back since lunch.) Kwo Wey has not stopped talking. He talks about food, of all things. Apparently, he wants to build his own restaurant. He doesn’t seem to realize that it’s a one-sided conversation, since Tinsley really only responds with _hmm’s_ and _uh-huh’s._

When Tinsley hands him his coffee, he smiles again and says, ‘Hey, if you’re not busy tonight, some friends and I are thinking of having a drink at this new bar. You can join us if you like! My treat!’ He writes the bar and address on the napkin and hands it over to him. ‘My girlfriend just came to visit from China, and I have not seen her in forever.’

Tinsley smiles, amused. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Great! See you, man!’ 

He eyes the napkin and chuckles. That’s certainly a development. Tinsley actually hasn’t returned to that grocer ever since that encounter, since he doesn’t want a reprise of that awkward exchange but it turns out that Kwo Wey turned out to be a nice person, just a little bit over-enthusiastic, and only pleasantly annoying. Plus, he doesn’t mind a free drink.

By around eight in the evening, Tinsley is lounging on his porch with a cigarette. He’s debating on whether going to the bar, despite being at least a good, few minutes late. He looks at what he’s wearing and cringes; his navy blue shirt has rips on its hem, his cargo pants have shrunk an inch closer above his knee, and he’s well, currently barefoot. _Better get over it, then._ He stands up and turns to the door, thinking of changing when he hears heavy footsteps behind him. 

When he looks back, he sees a familiar figure trudging through the mud. Tinsley squints his eyes, cursing softly for misplacing his prescription glasses. As the figure inches closer, he realizes it was the stranger from weeks before. He looks even worse than before, and he’s clearly bleeding _again._ He looks heavenwards, muttering, ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake.’ 

The man sways as he walks closer, standing still for a moment before his eyes roll into the back of his head. He collapses, face-planting directly to Tinsley’s crops. Tinsley sighs as he jogs towards him. ‘You ruined my tomatoes.’ he says flatly, before scooping the man in his arms (with great difficulty) and once more, lets him inside his home. 

There goes his plans. 

* * *

He places the stranger on his bed this time, arms aching in the effort. Swiftly, Tinsley examines him for any other injuries but thankfully, there’s nothing besides his very obvious shoulder wound. He takes off the man’s black blazer, and wastes no time in ripping his clothes to take a look at the wound. Gunshot wounds, for that matter, the two wounds being a clear indication. They look worse than his stab wound. Purple and yellow bruises surround the wound and he hisses in sympathy at the gape, still spurting droplets of blood. He applies pressure to both wounds on his right shoulder. Consequently, the man opens his eyes and moans in agony. 

He claws at Tinsley, leaving red streaks at his arm. Tinsley muffles a cry and instead says, with slight indignance, ‘Is this how you treat someone who tends to your wounds?’

He doesn’t think the man was unconscious, much less capable of talking so he turns to him, surprised when the man replies, ‘You ripped my turtleneck.’

‘Touché, I guess.’ He murmurs before checking the wound again. ‘There’s an exit wound, so no bullet. But you’re losing a lot of blood, you need—‘

‘No hospitals.’

‘Right,’ Tinsley keeps his hands steady, agreeing despite burning with curiosity and suspicion. ‘We may need to stitch this up.’

‘Do what you have to.’ The man mumbles, still gripping his arm. 

Tinsley narrows his eyes at him ‘Why are you always injured?’ 

The man just smiles dazedly, eyes still closed. ‘I’m a very dangerous man, darling.’

Tinsley rolls his eyes, then falls quiet. After some time, he gets up to get a basin of water. When he returns, the man is babbling incoherently again, turning from side to side. He’s sweating, wet hair sticking on his forehead. The taller man purses his lips, going back to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He places it near the stranger’s mouth, tilting his head forward at the same time. He drinks greedily, eyes closing and opening. When he finishes, Tinsley returns his attention to the wounds, and begins cleansing the tender flesh. The man is unconscious again, and he takes the time to properly sterilize the needle and thread. 

‘Apologies in advance,’ Tinsley mutters to the man before delicately puncturing the edge of the wound with his needle. The man promptly wakes up and yells out, ‘ _¡Hijo de puta!’_ as he continues to stitch the wound. 

Once he finishes, he dabs the wound with a wet towel, rubs some Neosporin and puts a bandage on it. He does the same with the exit wound. After briefly playing doctor, Tinsley slumps on the chair in exhaustion. He observes the bandages for a while, anxious that they might bleed through. When he’s reassured that they don’t, he starts picking up all the clutter in the room. Eventually, he passes out on a chair near the bed.

With barely a wink of sleep, he’s awoken by the man’s sighs and whines. ‘Wh—‘ he grumbles, rubbing his tired eyes. ‘What issit?’

‘Water,’ The man rasps out, voice heavy and rough. 

Tinsley complies, and helps him sit up so he could drink properly, careful as to not move his injured shoulder. He drinks it all in one go, sighing once he’s done. Tinsley takes the empty glass from him, ‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Hurts like a bitch,’ he slurs, lying back down. His eyes are drooping sleepily. ‘Thank you...’ he trails off questioningly. 

‘C.C. Tinsley.’ Tinsley says, as he drapes the blanket on his body. 

The man snickers, his head falling into the pillow. ‘Funny name.’ He mutters before slowly drifting to sleep. Tinsley just shakes his head before leaning closer to the man’s leg good-naturedly. ‘Sure, buddy.’

He lets himself look at the man once again. His face seems significantly thinner, his eyes sunken. He also has a fading bruise on his jaw, and some scruff on his cheeks. Despite all that, he still looks like something out of a daydream. 

Tinsley scoffs before dragging his own feet to the living room. He’s already sleeping when his body hits the couch. 

* * *

To absolutely no one’s surprise, the stranger is gone when he wakes up. 

Tinsley groans uncomfortably as he stretches, joints popping all over the place. It’s never a good idea to sleep on a couch that is half his size but he didn’t seem to have a choice in that matter. When he goes to check the man, he isn’t surprised to see only rumpled, bloody sheets and an empty glass on the side table. He doesn’t think too much into it. He hops into the shower and gets dressed, suddenly remembering that he has a job. 

The day passes him like a swift wind. Kwo Wey came to visit and talked about something but Tinsley tunes him out. His muscles still ache, and he cannot stop thinking about him. If he has somehow bled through his bandages. If he’s being stabbed or shot somewhere again. If he’s eating properly. He can almost hear Selma whispering in his ear, ‘ _You’ve always been too kind, my love. Far too kind.’_

When he goes home, he immediately lights up a cigarette and sits on the couch, getting back to the novel he’s reading. Once he’s burnt out his cigarette, he strides over to the kitchen to get a beer but is floored by a strange, leather bag sitting on top of the table. He notices the note next to it and quickly snatches it. It’s a simple, white card with a suspiciously pleasant scent. It reads:

_Thanks 4 everything darling_

_-RG_

His eyes are furrowed, muttering, ‘What the hell…’ He then checks the inside of the messenger bag and finds what seems to be a numerous amount of crisp, bright green dollars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooOOOOoooOOoOH
> 
> SO anyways, who's excited for watcher's new show??? 
> 
> if you liked this, leave a kudos and a comment maybe???? :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of an empty farmhouse, he finds the opposite when he inches closer to his white fence. He furrows his brows as the figure donning a suit seems to inspect his crops, his back turned against him. ‘Hello there?’
> 
> The man straightens up and faces him, a self-satisfied smile curling his mouth. ‘Hello again.’

Tinsley must have stared at the money for an inordinate amount of time. He still doesn’t know what to think. Shell-shocked is an understatement. When his senses returned to him, he quickly hid the bag inside the closet, set on never using it. Somehow, he already knows what kind of a man _RG_ is without thinking too much about it. Even now, as he presses coffee grounds, he’s thinking about the possibly-illegally-obtained-money. It isn’t a surprise to him that _RG_ might be involved in illicit _activities_ hence the excessive injuries and the blood money. 

Tinsley palms his face before handing the customer his coffee. The customer takes it, looking at him worriedly, ‘You okay, man?’

‘Mind your damn business,’ he says irritably, rubbing his temple. The customer seems startled, scurrying off. He just closes his eyes, not caring if he just violated employee etiquette or some other bullshit like that. 

‘Rough night?’ A voice snaps him out of misery, and when he turns to the source, he is greeted by the sight of Kwo Wey, looking generally happy about his life, which offends him greatly. Tinsley just grumbles, resting his head on his hand. He hears his bubbling laughter. ‘I guess that answers my question.’

‘Last night was great, by the way. Thank you for asking.’ He says, while hopping on a stool in front of Tinsley. Confused, he raises his head to face the shorter man before realization dawns on him. 

‘Sorry,’ He runs a hand through his shaggy, sandy hair, feeling only partially guilty. ‘Something came up.’

Kwo Wey just waves it off. ‘Ah, no harm done. It was pretty uneventful, anyway.’ He sighs, looking somber. 

‘How’s your girl?’

‘Xue was a little, heh, jet-lagged.’ He smiles, although it looks a little forced. ‘Although, it’s understandable, of course!’

‘Of course.’ Tinsley says, slowly. 

‘Speaking of, the reason of my being here is…’ Kwo Wey pauses, scrambling to look for something inside his canvas duffle bag, ‘...this!’ He hands him a cream-colored, ceramic box with a black lid. Confounded, Tinsley takes it and is slightly alarmed by how heavy it is. There's something written by a black marker on the side: _Kwo Wey Lim._

‘It’s a bento box, you can heat it in the microwave.’ Tinsley stares at him. ‘It’s food! I’ve been trying my hand at it, since I want to own a restaurant someday.’

‘Um.’

‘Let me know what you think of it!’ Kwo Wey says cheerily, slapping the counter before exiting the coffeehouse. 

Bewildered, Tinsley is left staring at the _bento box,_ his headache all but forgotten.

* * *

After his shift, he comes across the pet store from before. Without realizing it, his feet have dragged him inside. His eyes are glued to a tabby cat sleeping with its head resting on its paws. He raises his hand to stroke the orange-colored fur on top of its head, making the cat blink its green eyes at him. Tinsley stares as it boops its head on his hand and goes back to sleeping. 

Green, not amber.

Tinsley shuts his eyes, a rush of ache knocks the wind on his lungs. He heaves a deep sigh before turning to leave.

* * *

Tinsley walks all the way home. Instead of an empty farmhouse, he finds the opposite when he inches closer to his white fence. He furrows his brows as the figure donning a suit seems to inspect his crops, his back turned against him. ‘Hello there?’

The man straightens up and faces him, a self-satisfied smile curling his mouth. ‘Hello again.’ 

Tinsley almost drops the bag he’s holding, but thankfully he regains composure. He keeps his expression blank as he continues walking towards his house, casually asking, ‘How’s your arm?’

The man who refers to himself as _RG_ eyes the triangular bandage slung on his arm, and shrugs his left arm effortlessly. ‘I’ve been worse.’ 

The taller man continues walking to his door, passing him by and catching a whiff of his perfume. Bergamot, cedar, and musk. With a hint of tobacco. It’s intoxicating. Sinful. It is what the Serpent would smell like as God casts him out of heaven, and as he slithers through the Garden to tempt Eve. He unlocks the door, and without looking back, he says, ‘Come in, then.’

The man smirks, this time showing his pearly-white teeth and for the third time, Tinsley lets him in. 

He goes to the kitchen to grab two cans of beers, tossing the other one to his companion. He catches it flawlessly before sitting on the dining chair, crossing his leg like a businessman would. Tinsley takes a swig from his beer and sits on the couch, observing him. He looks significantly better; gone is the paleness of his face, his dark, dirt-colored eyes are brighter, and the arm sling he’s wearing must mean he’s getting better care. He’s wearing a matching gray suit jacket and trousers, a white dress shirt with the top buttons popped. Tinsley scoffs inwardly at the mud caked on the soles of his fancy, leather shoes. His sable-colored hair is swept back neatly, and the rings on his finger seem to glitter under the sunlight. 

For a beat and a half, his gaze stays on the golden cross on the man’s neck before it returns to his face. ‘Are you quite done, Mr. Tinsley?’ There is a smug look on his face.

‘Where did it come from?’ Tinsley asks, ignoring the jab.

‘Where did what come from?’

‘The money.’

‘Oh, _that_ ,’ The shorter man says a little boredly, but then his expression becomes playful. ‘Would you be mad if I said that I stole them?’

Tinsley looks at him, unamused. 

He rolls his eyes, ‘Don’t worry about it.’

That doesn’t comfort Tinsley at all. The man takes a sip from his beer, looking at him straight in the eyes. Tinsley feels his blood become warmer underneath his skin. He takes a cigarette from his pocket, as he holds his gaze, never wavering. He could have sworn that there’s a glint in his eye as he blows the smoke into the man’s direction.

‘Listen, I don’t want any kind of money from anyone, ‘least of all you.’ He says firmly, ‘I don’t need charity.’

The man looks at him, unimpressed. ‘I’m gonna choose to ignore that.’

‘I’m serious—‘

‘You know, C.C Tinsley is such an interesting name.’ He interrupts, leaning into the squeaky chair. ‘You weren’t a detective before, by any chance?’

‘No.’ He answers confidently, taking another puff even as a chill runs down his back.

‘Perhaps.. a private investigator?’ The man whispers, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. If it were any normal person, they would squirming under the man’s dark look. He’s shorter than him, but he exudes so much confidence and power that it seems to hang in the air around them. Tinsley keeps his face straight.

‘Couldn’t be me.’

‘Is that so?’ The man leans back, fully grinning now. ‘I can just imagine it. Mr. C.C Tinsley clutching his case file in frustration, and burning through his cigarettes because once again, he couldn’t catch the big, bad criminal and his client is giving up on him.’

Tinsley blinks rapidly. 

‘Meanwhile, the killer roams free, and this time, he upped his game. He starts leaving gold coins in his victims. Does that sound familiar, Tinman?’ 

He frowns, staring at the man, stupefied. That’s classified information, one that he had to bribe from the detective on the case. (It was the LAPD, it wasn’t hard.) ‘How did you—‘ he stops himself abruptly, piecing everything inside his head. His grip tightens at his beer.

‘And the penny drops.’ Ricky Goldsworth, LA’s most elusive criminal, laughs arrogantly. All of a sudden, the expensive suits and the golden jewelries make so much more sense. ‘Give the detective a prize!’

Choosing not to be deterred, Tinsley takes a long drag, ‘Are you threatening me, Goldsworth? I have to say, I’m not impressed.’

‘Certainly not, darling,’ Goldsworth stands up, brushing his bespoke suit. He stands up as well. ‘I just love reuniting with old foes, don’t you?’

Tinsley hums, deadpan. 

‘I have to give it to you,’ He shoves his free hand in his pocket, his head cocking to one side. The paragon of a criminal. ‘You were one of the few ones who have come _so_ close. Fortunately, I’m still here.’

‘Yes, fortunately.’ He has to restrain himself from sneering.

‘Don’t look so glum. You’ll be seeing more of me; that’s a promise.’ The shorter man reaches out to pat his cheek patronizingly. 

He slaps the hand away, jaw clenching, ‘I’m thrilled.’

‘You got quite a mouth on you.’ He remarks, his left eyebrow twitching in irritation as he yanks his hand away. Tinsley just smiles innocently. ‘I’ll see you around, Tinman.’ He takes a last look in his house, then at Tinsley before going. 

It was an hour before Goldsworth had left that Tinsley realized that he had let the Devil into his home. 

* * *

Tinsley rummages through the box, looking for the files he impulsively brought with him. He had discarded the others he deemed to be useless but kept the ones he thought is important. For sentimental purposes, he supposes. A familiar, manila folder catches his eyes. 

He can recall it perfectly now; the first time (and what he had initially to be the last time) he has seen the elusive Goldsworth.

—

_‘You got it?’ Detective Miller muttered under his breath. They were sitting in the opposite booth, their backs against each other._

_It’s only after breakfast, and the diner is strangely serene. The sun is almost out, peeking from the horizon. Few people milled around, mostly sipping coffee or reading newspapers. One of them was private investigator C.C Tinsley, taking a deliberate drag of his cigarette. His tan trench coat was rumpled, and he’s pretty sure there’s crusty blood left in his loose tie. He reached into his pockets, grabbing the envelope. Discreetly, he handed it over to the detective._

_He sipped his black coffee, the steam from it fogging up his glasses. He waited for a minute, assuming that Det. Miller was probably counting the fat wad of money. What a crook, he thought to himself as he rests his cheek on his palm. A crook that is vital to his investigation, nonetheless._

_He is so goddamn tired, haven’t had barely a wink of sleep last night (or the previous nights, either.) Selma has berated him this morning for being working too hard but if he wanted a good life, a better life for the two of them, he wouldn’t be bribing corrupt cops at nine in the morning. It’s not ideal, but it’s what he’s good at. Now that they were going to be married, he’s putting out all stops. So he just kissed her cheeks and told her not to wait for him._

_‘This never happened.’ The detective mutters before handing him the file and walking straight out. Tinsley grabs the folder, hungrily skimming through every paper._

_‘Gotcha.’ he whispers to thin air as he downs his coffee._

.

 _He was nicknamed_ The Banker _on account of the gold coins he would leave inside the pockets of his victims. No one has ever seen his face, or know where he came from. Just his name— Ricky Goldsworth, a made-up name if Tinsley’s ever heard of one. No one knows exactly what he does, just that he has four confirmed kills. No one has ever interacted with him either and came out alive, except for a few lucky witnesses who ultimately provided no useful information. He’s not on the system either; basically a ghost. He’s about 97% certain Goldsworth is part of one of the crime families of Los Angeles’ underworld._

 _This time, he will catch him, he can feel it. It’s midnight, nearing one in the morning and Tinsley is sitting on the front seat of his car. He was parked near the_ Nirvana _, who according to the chatter he gathered, was one of the nightclubs Goldsworth frequently goes into._

_He sipped his third cup of coffee that night, not taking his eyes off the club, despite its blinding strobe lights. Flashes of violet, red, and blue and muted jazz pours from the building. He frowned at the people stumbling out, clearly drunk out of their minds on a Tuesday night._

_His limbs ached, having been surveilling from his car. Groaning, he rubs his eyes behind his glasses. Suddenly, he saw movement from the corner of his eyes and he leaned closer, almost knocking his cold coffee over. A man wearing a black, long coat and a black, Panama hat exits the club with his arm snaked on a skinny woman’s waist. She’s wearing a velvety, blue dress, and her tight, curly hair is pinned up into rolls. The man turned his face to kiss her cheek and Tinsley caught a glimpse of his face, wearing sunglasses. Just like what his informant said._ Bingo _._

_He scrambled on his feet, getting out of his car to tail them. He kept his wits with him, never taking his eyes off the couple. ‘Who wears sunglasses at night?’ He mutters under his breath, making sure to remain his distance from them. He was obviously a psychopath, Tinsley concluded._

_They rounded off a corner, and he could see the two get into a sleek, black_ _car_ _. Tinsley knew that this was his only shot so he thinks quickly. Unfortunately, before he could think of anything, a sharp pain at the back of his head knocks him unconscious,_

_When he woke up in his car, the blood all dried up on the back of his head, he knew he missed his opportunity to catch the mysterious Banker._

—

That next day, Ricky Goldsworth left Los Angeles. Nobody knows where he had gone off to. He had exhausted every trail and lead, but ultimately ended up with nothing. If he had to guess, he was somewhere half across the world. He didn’t try to look for him further since his client had fired anyway, not after calling him _incompetent_ and other words related to that. He remembers slamming the door to his client, even as she kept yelling that Goldsworth has stolen something from his safe. She was a rich asshole, so he figured she probably deserved it so he doesn’t feel too bad. 

Somehow, it only proves his feelings of unease about the man. He always knew he was somehow dangerous, something about the general air about him. The reason why he moved here was to not get caught up with _it_ ever again, to put everything behind once and for all. And here he is again; back at the belly of the whale again. 

Tinsley knows that nothing _good_ could ever come from this. He realizes that this will only end in blood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woosh, they talked!!!
> 
> sorry for the super lame nickname for ricky btw sgdghhsgfs. leave a kudos/comment if you liked this chapter uwu <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Tinsley?’ A sharp, clear voice interrupts him mid-sip and he turns to his side and sees a friendly face. Her long, blonde hair is styled to classic waves, and behind the round glasses are light blue eyes. 
> 
> He does a double-take before speaking, ‘Ms. Holly Horsley.’

It’s a humid July in Illinois. The sun is an angry shade of reds and oranges, complementing with the yellow streaks of clouds near it. It’s a busy evening this day especially, now that summer has officially started. The street is flooded with people who come alive at night, doing God-knows-what. Every city has its secrets, and Chicago is ripe with them **.**

Tinsley roams the street with a cigarette between his fingers. On his left hand, he’s clutching an assortment of white and yellow chrysanthemums. He’s wearing a black, fitted Henley sweater, dark denim jeans, and his trusty, brown combat boots. He stops in front of a metal archway—the words _OAKWOOD CEMETERY_ in bronze writing—wide, concrete pathway parts the way from the scattering of tall, looming trees. His feet start moving past the small monuments and the blooming flowers, to the marble gravestones. It should feel eerie, being here as the dusk settles in. The sunlight is starting to fade, giving way to the night as hazy darkness brews around the corner. But Tinsley’s never been the type of person who is afraid of the unexplained, being a man of logic and cold, hard science. It’s what made him a damn good P.I. 

However, while it’s still there, he can appreciate the way the sun dances through the trees. It’s like looking through an amber stone: everything looks bright and beautiful. It’s the kind of thing Selma would have been painting, if she were still alive. But she’s not, so this view is left to a man who cannot truly cherish its beauty.

Tinsley stops in front of a gray, granite gravestone. The marker reads:

Sylwia Cieślak Tinsley

_Kochająca żona i matka_

_1886 – 1942_

He throws his cig away, and sits on the grass in front of his mother’s grave. He takes the wilted flowers from the stone vase, replacing them with fresh ones. It’s been five years but the ache is still there. Sometimes, it’s little pinpricks in his chest and sometimes it’s excruciating pain gnawing away at him. It never really goes away. It stays in you like a shrike that you can’t take out. Tinsley closes his eyes, whispering a prayer. He’s not a religious person, he can’t even remember the last time he went to any church but his mother was a devout Christian. He does believe in God, however. He believes in a heaven, and a hell, and an afterlife of burning through the fiery pits for the truly evil pieces of shit like pedophiles and Hitler, may he not rest in peace.

His mother was an immigrant. She left the river and valleys of Kraków for the cold winters of Chicago, Illinois. Tinsley never met his father, since he left and never came back. But his mother, bless her, was in love with him and always believed he would come back. She had Tinsley when she was eighteen—barely an adult, grasping at straws. They were very poor, and sometimes relied on the kindness of others yet they were happy. Though they lived in a home that was barely a house, and ate scraps, his mother’s love was more than enough. When the Nazis came to Poland and took the last of their family, a part of his mother had also died. She never said anything, but he can hear her screaming every night, then faces the morning as if her eyes aren’t red from crying. She was always like that; kept everything to herself, until one day, it just burst open. 

He talks quietly to her grave for a while, telling her about his life. He used to tell stories to her as a child, laying his head on her lap as she gently strokes her hair. Tinsley tells her about his farm. About how he started a new life, away from Chicago, away from Fayetteville, West Virginia, and away from Los Fucking Angeles. 

When he’s done talking, the sight of the dark skies and pale, crescent moon greets him. He checks the time: quarter to six. quarter to Tinsley stands up, stomping his asleep legs. He taps his mother’s gravestone, ‘Spoczywaj, Mama.’ 

Tinsley walks the opposite direction, guided by the lampposts. When he sees the iconic Confederate Mound, he knows he must be near. Finally, he stops at a gravestone similar to his mother. The star of David is etched on the grave marker, where it reads:

_In loving memory of_

Selma Rubin

_October 20, 1919 - December 23, 1947_

He stares at the name engraved on the marker, numb. Tinsley hasn’t come back here since the funeral, and a part of him still doesn’t believe that she’s lying on the cold, dark earth beneath him. His knees buckle, and before he knows it, he’s pressing his forehead on the slab of stone. Hot, salty tears begin to pour from his eyes, unrelenting. The sobs rip through his heaving chest, his whole body is trembling in anguish. ‘I’m sorry,’ Tinsley gasps out. He repeats those words again and again, although he knows that he will never be forgiven. 

Tinsley recalls the night they met. It had been a day of sleuthing, and he was exhausted to the bone. That night, only an automat was open. Having never been to one before, he didn’t know how to work the damn machines. Selma, who was working there at the time, looked amused more than anything, taking pity on him. The first thing that immediately stuck to Tinsley was her big, round eyes. They were a startling shade of green. He only regrets not looking at those eyes more often. He just never expected them to be gone so soon either.

Before he leaves, he discards the withered flowers, and places a single, pink carnation—her favorite flower. He kisses Selma’s name and says goodbye. 

* * *

When he gets out of the cemetery, he looks around and realizes that the city has awoken. City lights and bustling cars make everything glitter at night. He can almost smell the fresh waters of Lake Michigan. He looks around, thinking of what else to do since he’s not to return to Wolf Trap until tomorrow morning. He remembers there’s a bar nearby and suddenly his feet are taking him into it. He hears a scuffle behind him and he turns his head towards it sharply, finding nothing but trees.

Tinsley trudges on, entering a reasonably-packed cocktail bar. Men and women invade the space with their dancing and drinking, and a fog of tobacco smoke seems to part as he goes inside. The interior looks shabby, but the atmosphere is lively, almost homey. Photographs line the walls, the lighting makes the place look more spacious than it actually is. It’s conspicuous enough; the illusion of the darkness that a part of him thinks that this was the bar’s very purpose. The deep timbre of Perry Como’s voice vibrates throughout the bar. He beelines for the counter top, sits on the only unoccupied seat, and gestures for the barkeeper. The barkeeper nods at him, serving a drink to a woman before coming over. 

‘What can I get ya?’ The barkeeper says in a faint Brooklyn accent. 

‘Just whiskey, neat, thanks,’ He mutters. The barkeeper nods at him, pouring the bronze-colored liquor to the glass. He slides the drink to him, and hurries over to another customer. Tinsley takes a sip, savoring the familiar burn. He drinks sporadically, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Funnily enough, he’s thinking about Kwo Wey’s food. It had been surprisingly good, and he ought to tell him that. It reminded him of his mother’s cooking; how everything is home-made and served warm. Even though there’s a vast difference, just eating food that was homemade made him miss his mother so much, it made his chest clench painfully. His favorite had been the steamed dumplings, which reminded him of his mother’s pierogis. 

‘Tinsley?’ A sharp, clear voice interrupts him mid-sip and he turns to his side and sees a friendly face. Her long, blonde hair is styled to classic waves, and behind the round glasses are light blue eyes. 

He does a double-take before speaking, ‘Ms. Holly Horsley.’

‘Hi,’ Holly sits on the stool next to him, clearly shocked. She’s wearing a sleeveless, white frock with blue buttons on the front and black, platform shoes. Surprisingly, she’s also wearing light makeup, except for the bright, red lipstick. She’s clearly here to have fun, not to work which is a huge surprise. ‘How’ve you been?’

He ponders that question for a moment, before shrugging, ‘Could be worse. You?’

‘Same old.’

‘Where’s Marchbank?’ Theo Marchbank is Holly’s partner; he would tag along the cases often that Tinsley has learned to tolerate him. They don’t usually get along, but it’s neither here nor there.

She sighs, long-suffering. He understands; Marchbank can be… a little too _much_. ‘Suspended.’

Tinsley gapes at her, ‘Again?’

‘He’s a goddamn headache, you know that.’

‘Son of a bitch.’

They worked together on multiple cases, back when Tinsley was still a private investigator. It started on a coincidence; a client of his was a victim of aggravated robbery, worth almost $1000. He didn’t trust the police so he came to a PI instead. This seemingly simple theft case turned out to be a part of an elaborate heist, and soon enough he crossed paths with Holly and Marchbank during a stakeout. They didn’t trust each other; as most police officers and investigators do, only hesitantly working together for the sake of the case. But as time went on, they saw how well their partnership was. The rest is history, as they say. A CPD detective and a PI should not make sense, and they should be like oil and water. (He and Marchbank are, but at least they haven’t mortally maimed each other.) But they mesh well together, on account of having the same values and Holly being the only one in the police department who wasn’t corrupt. Soon enough, the three of them weren’t just colleagues but also friends. 

He feels a little scandalized seeing Holly dressed up like this, used to her modest suit and pencil skirt and it must have shown on his face since she takes a gander at herself and chuckles dryly, ‘Yeah, I know I look ridiculous. I’m here for a case.’ Well, he stands corrected. 

Tinsley tips his drink at her, silently asking if she wants one. She shakes her head. He sips and asks, ‘What’s it about?’

‘Just some guy in the mob. They’ve been recruiting people to become their clean-up crew for their crimes. They think he might be persuaded if I look like this,’ Holly rolls her eyes, ‘Hence the dress and the makeup.’

He snickers at her disgusted expression, ‘And the hair.’

‘And the hair,’ She scoffs. They’re quiet for a while, and she’s just staring at Tinsley with an analysing look, her pale brows pulled together like a string bow. 

‘What?’

‘Nothing, it’s just that last time I’ve seen you, you said you’re going to live a quiet life.’

Tinsley doesn’t say anything, just downs the remainder of his drink.

‘How’s that going, by the way?’ Holly asks curiously, resting her arm on the counter. 

‘It’s going.’ He replies mysteriously, ‘I plant carrots now.’

‘Really?’

The truth is, it hasn’t been easy. Tinsley grew up in the city, he knows it by heart (and probably still does.) To adjust to country life just like that is a long process that is still going. But he can’t deny he misses the people, and the culture. 

‘God, I can’t imagine what that’s like. Just leaving it all behind.’ She mutters, wiping the lenses of her glasses. For a brief second, he imagines if circumstances are not as they are. He would be hopping onto Holly’s case in a heartbeat. They’d be subtly questioning their target together, do some more investigative work, and when after all is said and done, they’d share a drink and bid adieu. Then, he’d go home to the little apartment he shares with Selma and their fat, tabby cat. 

He has spent all this time convincing himself that that future isn’t possible, and trying to make his peace with that. It’s been a year since her death, and he’s tired of being paralyzed with grief and anger and vengeance. They don’t work. He tried finding those people who killed her but ultimately, it achieved nothing. None of them could ever bring her back. It also does not change the fact that he got her killed, anyway. And he’s tired. He’s so tired. The reason why he moved all the way to Virginia is to get away from it, but there’s always something that pulls him back in. 

Tinsley must have been too quiet for too long because Holly has a guilty expression on her face. ‘Sorry, I know it’s because of…’

‘It’s fine, Hol.’ He smiles, tightly. 

‘I’m sorry.’

Tinsley gestures for the barkeeper for another glass of whiskey, and decides to change the subject, ‘So, what’s the play here? Stakeout?’

She flips her styled hair, frowning as she explains, ‘George Ramirez. Apparently, he’s in love with me and if I played my cards right, he’d crack. Heard a rumor that he’s a bit of a tattletale.’

‘They’re not forcing you, are they?’

Holly just smirks, ‘I’m not above using a little manipulation, you know that.’

He exhales outs a laugh, takes a swig of his slightly warm whiskey, making a face while doing so. ‘You sure you don’t want a drink?’

‘Well, maybe while I’m—‘ A man wearing a blue suit enters the bar, and everyone including Holly, whips their head around to look. He’s dark-skinned, with gelled, jet-black hair and round, dark eyes. He wears a silver cross necklace, a perfume that smells like wealth, and a smile that confirms that yes, he is the most powerful man in this room right now. ‘Shit, that’s my guy.’ Holly whispers, frantically fixing her otherwise immaculate dress. ‘Hey, raincheck on that drink soon?’

Tinsley leans in conspiratorially, ‘Knock ‘em dead, Horsley.’

She grins at him, and then stomps her three-inch shoes towards her target, still wearing her wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly smile. The man, Ramirez, immediately recognizes her, snaking his arm on her waist, blissfully unaware of the gun usually holstered on her leg. Tinsley snorts on his whiskey, and with the knowledge Holly Horsley can knock a man unconscious in under five seconds, he gets up and leaves. 

* * *

Tinsley returns to Wolf Trap the next morning, immediately falling asleep again once he gets home. When he wakes up, the day has passed and it was already night. Somehow, he’s still tired so he decides to light up a cigarette. He started smoking when he was fifteen, and it became worse when he started being a private investigator. But now, he’s trying to take them into moderation. The jury’s still out on whether it’s working.

The next day, everything is back to normal. He’s back to manning the counter of the coffeehouse, back to smelling like coffee grounds, and of course, back to the annual frequent Kwo Wey visits. Usually, he visits with a button-down shirt, too-large trousers, and a big smile. Today, his forehead is knitted sadly and his polo shirt is rumpled.

‘You okay?’ Tinsley asks while wiping a dirty table.

Kwo Wey looks at him, his eyes red. ‘My girlfriend broke up with me.’

‘That’s rough. Sorry, man,’ He winces, patting him on the shoulder consolingly.

He slumps on the stool in front of the counter, resting his head on his arm depressingly. Tinsley sighs, feeling bad for the man. Kwo Wey is undeniably annoying and too cheery for Tinsley’s own sake, but these past few weeks, he has actually come to enjoy his company. He’s kind and thoughtful; he wouldn’t mind a little softness in his life. He goes behind the counter, and pours the coffee from the french press into a tall glass. Then he adds the cold milk, then the ice cubes. He places it in front of Kwo Wey, and gently pokes him on the shoulder. 

‘Drink that, it’s on the house.’

The shorter man raises his head, looking at him miserably before sipping the cold beverage. One thing he loves better than green tea is coffee, especially a good iced coffee. ‘Thanks,’

‘By the way, I liked your lunch box,’ Tinsley remarks, ‘Which reminds me, I haven’t returned it.’

Kwo Wey immediately lights up, ‘Oh, just drop it off my house,’

‘I don’t know where you live.’ 

He then spends the next minute describing his address in detail, which was actually not far from his farmhouse, coincidentally. He also asks Tinsley where he’s been for the last couple of days and he surprises himself by actually telling the truth. He usually doesn’t share intimate details to a friend he just met but Kwo Wey has such a pleasant, trusting disposition that it feels like he’s known him for a very long time. To his surprise, he finds out that they’re both from the Midwest. Kwo Wey tells anecdotes about growing up in Columbus, and Tinsley tells him about his mother’s favorite restaurants in Chicago. After that, he had to leave to prepare for an interview at the bank about his new startup business. His shift ends an hour after that, and as he is walking to a nearby diner for his late lunch, he could have sworn he saw a man from across the street looking straight at him but when he tries to get a second look, he’s gone. He’s unnerved but ultimately forgets about it for the rest of the day.

* * *

Tinsley finds Kwo Wey’s house just as the night settles, only almost getting lost once. It’s exactly how he describes it: an awfully small cottage house, clearly meant for one person to be lived in, and is near the beaten path. The wooden walls are painted white, and the bricked chimney has some discoloration. ‘Hello?’ He speaks out, but there is no answer. Kwo Wey does not seem to be inside, or else he would hear him. There is light casting from the window, meaning that he must be home but the door ajar gives him a pause. 

He narrows his eyes, gripping the plastic bag he’s holding. He suddenly has a bad feeling in his gut. Slowly, he tiptoes near the door and peeks inside. All he sees is a sink and a kitchen countertop. No Kwo Wey. He opens the door wider, eyes scanning the room. On the other side is a bed, and a small table. Someone is obscured under the covers. Golden skin and jet-black hair. 

‘Tinsley?’

Tinsley stays as he is, frozen like a statue. He stares at the becoming entirely too familiar face of Ricky Goldsworth sleeping on the bed, inside the house of a friend he thought he knew. ‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ He mutters through gritted teeth.

‘Ricky? You know him?’

When he turns around, Kwo Wey is looking at him in disbelief. He’s holding a pouch of what appears to be medicine and such. He was about to speak but then the man cuts him off, ‘This is great! I didn’t know you two were friends.’

‘We’re not,’ Tinsley grabs his arm, ‘Listen, how long have you two been planning this?’

‘Plan what?'

‘Stop fucking around,’ He slams the bag he’s holding on a table, making the shorter man jump. Then, he palms his face. ‘Just tell me the truth, what do you want from me?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Kwo Wey yanks his arm away, looking at Tinsley with a flummoxed expression. 

‘Shit.’ He tugs at his hair, frustrated. He pulls the chair near to him and slouches, resting his throbbing head on his hands and breathing heavily. 

Ricky fucking Goldsworth stirs in his sleep, and starts snoring.

‘Okay, I don’t know what’s going on but Ricky’s been drugged, that’s why he’s here.’ He sits on a chair near him, looking at Goldsworth then at him, concerned. ‘And we’re not _planning_ anything. I didn’t know you two knew each other.’

Tinsley looks at him, ‘How do _you_ know him?’

‘We’re friends, I guess,’ Kwo Wey leans back, ‘He gets into.. fights sometime, so I help him out.’

‘He’s dangerous, Kwo Wey.’

‘I guess.’

‘I’m serious,’ He stands up, ‘He’s done bad things. He’s killed people.’

He’s quiet for a while, before smiling at Tinsley. ‘I know, but he’s changing.’

He stares at him in disbelief, then shakes his head. ‘I’m going.’ He starts walking.

‘I think he’s planning to leave it all behind.’

That makes him stop, ‘He’s Ricky Goldsworth.’

‘People change, Tinsley.’ 

Tinsley wishes that was true. 

‘You’re too damn trusting.’ is all he says before going out. 

* * *

Tinsley’s mind is in disarray. He feels like the universe is playing some kind of twisted game with him. Kwo Wey seems like he was being honest, but he’d be an idiot to actually trust a word he says. It’s his own Goddamn fault anyway; he’s a fool to think he could run away to Fuck-Knows-Where, Virginia and living in his stupid, little farmhouse, and blindly assume his past wouldn’t come running back to him. He walks all the way to his house, taking the long way, still shaken up. 

When he nears his home, a stranger is waiting for him, sitting on the bench on his porch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation:
> 
> Kochająca żona i matka - Loving wife and mother  
> Spoczywaj - Rest well
> 
> (i got all this from google translate, do NOT prosecute me if im wrong uwu. if anyone's wondering, it's polish!)
> 
> DID SOMEONE SAY SAD!TINSLEY?? well ok then. 
> 
> holly is based on the lovely katie leblanc because i loved her as qezza and when i wrote this holly, she just popped into my mind. yes if you couldn’t already tell by the surname, selma is based on the amazing sara rubin!!! 
> 
> sorry this took quite a while but i hope y'all liked this chapter! leave a kudos/comment if you did! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Did he give you money?’
> 
> ‘Yes.’ He exhales, watching the smoke disappear, ‘Is that what he does? Get injured, have strangers patch him up, and give them money?’
> 
> ‘It’s how he makes friends,’ The man says sardonically. Tinsley snorts.

Tinsley recognizes him. He’s been following him since Chicago, and now he’s just standing idly on the pathway. The man is wearing a black overcoat and a fedora. He’s sitting cross-legged, gloved hand resting on his lap. His green eyes flicker up to him, and he stands up but his blank expression doesn’t change. 

He doesn’t think straight and just lunges at the man, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him to the wall. ‘Listen, I have quite a day so I’m going to ask you once; what the fuck do you want from me?’

‘Mr. Tinsley, I’m going to have to politely ask you to get off of me.’

‘You’re in no position to ask here, pal,’ He hisses, tightening his hold. He feels the dam of frustration from the past few weeks start to crack, and his face twitches. He just wants to be left alone, _Goddammit_. Instead of answering, the man smoothly maneuvers, expertly twisting Tinsley’s arm and putting it behind his back while he shoves his cheek on the hardwood wall. Tinsley looks at him from his behind and he’s still maintaining the straight face. 

‘Mr. Tinsley, you are going to calm down and we will talk, understand?’ The man says, his tone suggests that it goes on without question. Tinsley tries to wriggle but his hold is strong, and his arm is starting to hurt. So, he stiffly nods.

‘Who the hell are you?’ He asks once the man frees him, stretching his arm out. 

‘Who I am doesn’t matter,’ The man fixes his wrinkled shirt and vest, ‘I’m here for Ricky.’

* * *

When Ricky wakes up, his mind is foggy and his mouth is dry. He blinks slowly, squinting at the light. He looks around, and sees that he’s still in Kwo Wey’s home. He sits up, and instantaneously, he feels an intense pain piercing through his head. The dawn has not broken in, but there is a slight gleam of sunlight from the skies. He stands up, fighting the urge not to vomit. He sees a myriad of unfamiliar pills and dry swallows two of them, trusting that they were specifically for him. 

Last night had not gone according to what it should have been, which is mostly the trend for Ricky recently. The plan was to go to New York, have a civil, polite dinner at the home of Goldsworths’ rival family, the Fratiannos. They settled in LA just two years ago, and have been surprisingly civil, saved for a few hostile interactions with their men. Ricky, being the family’s very own honeypot, was sent to charm and possibly seduce Luca Fratianno. He’s an adorable little thing with pretty eyes, so he’s not too annoyed. Unfortunately, it all went south when he found out that his drink had been drugged. He pulled out his gun, shooting the bastard on the shoulder so fast, he never saw it coming. Then, he jumped through the window and got out of dodge.

It had _not_ been the smoothest escape route, but he would have been littered with bullets either way. 

Ricky walks over to the couch, where Kwo Wey is sleeping, mouth open. Careful as to not make a sound, he moves a loose plank on the floorboards and takes out a duffle bag. He searches for one of the many counterfeit identification papers, and grabs a handful of hundred dollars. He always has one of these bags hidden anywhere he decides to lay low, which is just practical thinking if he does say so himself. Ricky returns the bag to its place, whispering, ‘Thanks, KW.’ before getting out of the house. If he starts walking now, he could reach a neighbourhood and hotwire a car to California. 

* * *

‘I don’t know anyone named Ricky.’

‘Please let’s not kid ourselves,’ The man takes off his hat, revealing short, dirty blond hair parted to the side. They’re inside his house now, both facing each other. He’s short, much shorter than Goldsworth but they have the same air of holier-than-thou. However, in contrast to Goldsworth’s impulsive, shameless nature, this man seems much more disciplined. Deliberate. 

‘I feel like I should let you know, I could kill you in ten different ways using only that wrench you hide under the couch.’ The man threatens. He sounds like he’s just stating a fact, and the thing is, Tinsley believes him. With his experience as PI, he prides himself for usually knowing whether someone is lying and this man, with his gaze hard like steel, is not. ‘I don’t want to do that, so I hope you cooperate.’

Tinsley eyes the couch. He must have broken inside his home. He sighs, deciding to just concede. Somehow, he had lost the battle before it even began. He gestures to the chair opposite him, sitting on the couch himself, ‘I’m not in the mood to die tonight, so please sit.’

The man obliges, sitting cross-legged. He places his fedora on the table. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘I saved his life.’ He answers, lighting a cigarette, which is already perched in his mouth. ‘Which I’m starting to regret.’

‘Did he give you money?’

‘Yes.’ He exhales, watching the smoke disappear, ‘Is that what he does? Get injured, have strangers patch him up, and give them money?’

‘It’s how he makes friends,’ The man says sardonically. Tinsley snorts. 

‘Has he come to see you?’

‘Yes.’ 

‘What did you talk about?’

He quirks his eyebrow, ‘Well, we definitely did not talk about his unfortunate habit of killing people on a regular basis.’ 

The man continues to stare at him, not amused. Tinsley just shrugs.

Might as well have fun with it.

* * *

Ricky screeches the stolen, navy blue Ford into a halt, checking himself in the mirror before getting out of the car. There are dark bags in his red eyes, and his pupils are slightly dilated. There’s also a nasty, yellow bruise on his forehead, and he still smells faintly of his own barf. He gets out of the car, fixing his sweaty hair to cover his bruise. He also pats his disheveled clothes down, thankful he didn’t get any blood on it. 

He buys a ticket for a flight to LA, which is boarding in less than five minutes. He hurries along to the security and hands him his _papers_ and ticket. The man looked at it then at him, with great scrutiny. Ricky does stand out a little, with his days old suit and overall shabby appearance. ‘Mr. Ryan Bergara, is it?’

‘Yes,’ He says impatiently, arms crossed.

‘Are you from Los Angeles, California originally, _young man_?’ The security man asks, eyeing him from his glasses suspiciously. 

‘Yes, _señor,’_ He grits his teeth. ‘Can I get on now?’

The man’s ridiculous moustache twitches, ‘What is the purpose of this flight, may I ask?’

‘What’s the fuckin’ hold up?’ Ricky snaps, his voice getting louder. Several, smartly-dressed people turn to look at him. ‘I’m late for my meeting, and you’re giving me a Goddamn inquisition?’

The man purses his lips, looking slightly embarrassed, ‘I’m—‘

‘Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m calling the authorities. This is highly inappropriate.’ He points his index finger accusingly, ignoring the growing whispers around him. The man widens his eyes, seemingly regretting being a piece of shit. He looks at his fellow officers desperately, but they look at him helplessly. 

‘I’m sorry, _sir,_ ’ The man swallows, ‘Please enjoy your flight.’

Ricky huffs, muttering for good measure, ‘So unprofessional.’ He swaggers his way to the plane terminal with a smirk on his face.

Works every time. 

* * *

At the time that has passed, midnight has fallen and Tinsley quickly burns through his third cigarette. Their conversation has been filled with thinly-veiled threats, and vague diatribes. He’s slightly worried that this is becoming a habit, letting in strange, dangerous men into his home and dangling himself like a live bait. He’s supposed he should be used to it, after making a job out of confronting strange, dangerous people. How is it that as soon as he decided not to pursue that career anymore, it came crawling back to him?

‘Why are you doing this?’ He asks out of the blue, after a beat of silence. The bastard can be really quiet if he tried.

The man just tilts his head. 

‘Goldsworth,’ he clarifies, ‘You his bodyguard or something? What’s in it for you?’

He seems to think deeply, before giving a very vague answer, ‘I owe him,’ He imagines being indebted to Ricky Goldsworth in any way and decides that he would rather put a bullet in his head than be in that position. The man shifts in his seat, and suddenly his gaze seems to harden. ‘Mr. Tinsley, I trust that you’re aware that Ricky knows who you are already.’

Tinsley’s jaw tightens.

‘But you see, he’s not as _meticulous_ as I,’ He uncrosses his legs, his dark, vacant eyes boring into his, ‘I’m truly sorry about what happened to the Sodder children.’

His hand curls into a taut fist, nails digging into his palm.

‘I know you moved here to forget, and I honor that.’

He waits for him to speak more and when he doesn’t, Tinsley snarls, ‘Really.’

‘Just as I honor your silence.’ 

He smiles without a hint of humor, ‘I think you should leave.’

The man leaves thereafter, putting on his ludicrous fedora, and nods his goodbye. Tinsley shuts the door forcefully after him, and punches the wall. His knuckles are red and scraped, but there’s no blood. 

* * *

Ricky lands in California in just four hours, and notices with relief that there’s already a car waiting for him. He gets in and orders the driver to take him to his house. He is dropped off at an equestrian-style _hacienda_ perching on the hills of Malibu, with lush greenery surrounding its stone walls. He breathes in the salty scent of Malibu Pier, and takes in the sight of the mansion, wondering how it could both feel unwelcome and warm. 

Ricky takes a quick shower, and when he finishes, he comes out wearing only a towel. He lounges on the sofa, fully intending to just relax and do nothing all day. The clinking of heels on marble floors stops him. He swivels his head and sees a tuft of brown curls. She’s wearing a lacy swing dress and leather mary-janes. 

‘You need to go back to New York,’ she says without preamble, not looking up from the papers she’s reading from. 

Ricky answers with a drawn-out groan, ‘Are you fucking kidding me, Fran?’

Francesca Norris looks up, scrunches her nose distastefully at his state of undress, and raises her left eyebrow, ‘His name is Jimmy Lugo,’ she hands her one of the papers, ‘Everything is in there.’

Francesca is one of the family’s most trusted confidants. She runs the shadows of the Goldsworths’ organized crime, coming up with strategic approaches and resolving political discords. Her beauty is lethal, and she knows how to use it. She once killed a man by choking him with her thighs. Fran can ensnare any man or woman by batting her eyes at them, or by swinging her hips, or just by being as she is. 

But when she’s not _working_ , she’s all assignments and duties and no-nonsense. Her tightly-coiled hair is pulled into victory rolls, and her hazel eyes are watching him as he reads the paper:

_James ‘Jimmy’ Lugo_

_9701 Newcastle Street, Bronx, NY_

‘What’d he do anyway?’

‘Been real friendly with a narc. I’ve always known he was a little snitch,’ Fran leers. There’s a glint in her eyes.

‘Why couldn’t J do it?’ He complains, annoyed, ‘He’s much better at this shit.’

She gives him a look, ‘Your mother specifically requested it to be you, Ricky.’

That instantly shuts him up. Unconsciously, Ricky’s hold on the paper tightens. He stands up, wet hair still dripping and gets decent. He rummages through racks and racks of suits worth thousands of dollars, and picks an all black ensemble.

Back to work.

* * *

Holly fixes Ramirez another nip of rye, flipping her light-colored hair over her shoulder. She leans closer to her, trying not to recoil in disgust by his atrocious breath. ‘So George,’ she purposely dips her voice lower, ‘Tell me about your job again.’

She’s been coaxing him since last night, pulling tidbits of information from Ramirez since they left the bar. She’s _so_ close, she just needs the names.

Ramirez grumbles, eyes barely open. 

‘What was that?’ She asks, getting frustrated. 

‘I can’t, baby,’ He slurs.

‘Come on,’ She leans forward, voice as sweet as honey. ‘I’m _so_ curious.’

He sighs, smiling stupidly, ‘Fine, but only for you,’ He starts naming people. Holly is thanking the Lord under her breath. 

‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your boss’s name?’ 

‘Lucy…’ Ramirez burps obnoxiously, ‘...Goldsworth.’

 _Bingo._ Holly smiles triumphantly, and touches Ramirez’s face, faux-fondly, ‘Thanks, George.’

She stands up and gets ready to get the hell out of this seedy hotel room. Hopefully, this bastard is sober enough to talk, but drunk enough to forget this ever happened. Time to make her case, starting with one Lucy Goldsworth, whoever she is. 

* * *

Ricky gets on a plane to NY an hour later, and is bound for Idlewild Airport in less than five hours. He slides in his rose-colored aviator glasses, protecting himself from the unrelenting glare of the sun. He takes a cab to Broadway, taking in the sights of the city. Stores, cinemas, and apartments all blur together like a long, continuous strip of blocks. 

He stops in front of a hotel, nodding at the concierge as he takes the elevator to the penthouse. When he gets to the penthouse, he beelines to the safe where he takes a Colt M1911A1, making sure it’s uncocked, and stuffs it in his waist. With a weapon secured in his person, he sets out to do his job. 

Half an hour drive later, Ricky stops in front of a suburban house. It’s an awful shade of green, resembling the color of vomit, the slight discoloration on the walls didn’t help either. Lugo’s house is smack dab in the middle of a suburban neighborhood in the Bronx, and every house in the suburbs is a carbon copy of each other. It makes him want to laugh. How could these people live here, where everyone is near and amicable to each other? 

It’s nearing nightfall and Ricky is sitting inside his car, biding his time. He’s parked a few miles away from the house, eyes darting from side to side. There are a few inconspicuous bystanders lurking around, obviously his neighbors. A small part of him tries to imagine what it would be like if he was exactly like these people, if he wasn’t Ricky Goldsworth and he’s just a regular person living in a regular home, with his wife and their kids and their dumbass, white picket fence. He snorts, methodically fiddling with the gun on his hand, swivelling the silencer on the mouth. 

The lights go out from the room upstairs and he moves quickly, slamming the car door from behind him. Ricky walks to the back of the house as casual as he can be with a gun tucked on the pocket inside his suit. He scaled the area earlier and he is certain that there’s a backdoor, and there is. He takes out the small tools from his back pocket and starts picking the lock, taking no more than a couple of seconds. When the door is unlocked, he tiptoes around the space, careful as to not make a sound. He goes upstairs, taking in his surroundings. Two closed doors (bedrooms, most definitely) and one opened door, which is the bathroom. 

He decides to go to the left door, relieved that it’s not locked. He swings the door open, and inside is one of the Goldsworths’ made men, Jimmy Lugo, sleeping soundly on his bed. He creeps closer, eyes unblinking and chest heavier than it had been mere seconds ago.

Killing. He’s been doing it since… he can’t even remember when. All he knows is that his palm is already calloused by holding guns before he realizes that he is the textbook definition of a hitman. It used to be difficult; killing people, watching them take their last, pitiful breath. But it gradually grew on him, and every time he sees the fear in their eyes, he feels a little bit more powerful.

Lugo turns on his sleep, and as if sensing that somebody’s watching him, he opens his eyes. He seems to realize who is currently standing before him, and his eyes widen. Lugo sits up in alarm, while Ricky steps closer to him. ‘Hello, old pal.’

‘Ricky? What are you—‘

He tuts, sitting on his bed, ‘You know the one thing I hate more than loud eaters, Jimmy?’

‘I don’t—‘ 

Ricky leans forward, so that their noses would touch. Then he places his lips near Lugo’s ear, whispering softly, ‘Snitches.’

Lugo bumps his forehead against his, making a sickening sound of bone against bone smacking. Ricky curses loudly, just as he starts scrambling on his feet. Swiftly, he takes out the gun and shoots Lugo on his back. He cries out in pain, and immediately buckles. 

Ricky touches his forehead, and hisses at the bump. He glares at Lugo, ‘Fucker,’ 

He walks towards his limp body, crouching so he would see his face contorted with pain. Ricky sighs, pouting as he pats Lugo’s bloodied cheek. 

‘Please,’ is all he stutters out.

‘You blew it, Jimmy.’ 

Lugo dies with his mouth open, bleeding everywhere. 

Ricky stands up and pockets his gun, wanting nothing but to get out there when a muffled cry makes him stop. The sound of wailing grows louder, and he freezes when he realizes who they belong to. A child. 

He makes his way to the room, twisting the knob open and finds an infant on the crib, the wailing is making his ears ring. He immediately notices the name _Bella_ written on the photograph. His eyes never leave the child, whose face has gone red from all the crying. Ricky breathes heavily. He knows what he must do.

Slowly, he takes the gun from his jacket again and aims it at the child, who seems to have noticed him. She looks at him with teary eyes, still sobbing. The memory of someone screaming, and the smell of gunpowder, and the blood (the blood was _everywhere_ ) comes all at once, knocking the air out of his lungs. 

Looking but not truly seeing, Ricky’s finger caresses the trigger. His hands are shaking so badly, and he closes his eyes, lowering the weapon. 

He gets out of the house before anyone can see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooo mysterious. i had this chapter locked up for weeks but was too lazy to edit LMAO sorry
> 
> yes, i added the ‘what’s the fuckin hold up’ bit, you know i had to :D let’s pretend that flights during the 40’s-50’s were as fast as today hehe, this chapter is a little over the place, sorry about that… ALSO fran norris is based on the looks of the gorgeous marielle scott, because i highkey have a crush on her (who doesn’t??) and we all know who silent j is :D 
> 
> ps. i got that address at a random generator :o


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Tinsley finally asks, voice flat.
> 
> The criminal lowers his book, taking his sunglasses off to look at him up and down. He smiles, ‘Have to say, the apron suits you, darling.’

Kwo Wey has been up even before the sun has risen, his only companions being only pens and a paper. In his journal, doodles of blood, leather, and forest green eyes fill the pages. As the sunlight seeps from his window curtains, he’s still mindlessly pencilling in shades on his sketches. He doesn’t hear his door opening, nor sense that there was a person inside his home.

Ricky flops on the bed, and lets out a loud, drawn out yawn. He’s still wearing the same suit a day ago, which he probably should dispose of. There might have been spatters of Lugo’s blood on his slacks still.

Kwo Wey jumps on his seat, and turns around. He glares at Ricky, squawking out a, ‘You scared the hell out of me!’

The other man sits up lazily, an amused smile on his face. ‘Did you just say _hell_? I’ve never heard you curse before.’

He just sighs, resting his face on his arms. Ricky narrows his eyes at him, lying on the rickety bed once more. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Kwo Wey mumbles something, but it comes out muffled. The criminal just rolls his eyes, ‘What?’ 

‘Well, Xue left me.’

Ricky frowns, trying to remember who Xue is again then chuckles when he does. ‘About damn time.’

The lanky man just ignores him, ‘And I think my friend is mad at me.’ 

Ricky just snorts, resting his arms behind his head. Kwo Wey suddenly rouses from his seat, and looks at the shorter man in alarm. ‘Hey, how did you and Tinsley become friends?’

The criminal furrows his eyebrows in confusion, ‘You know Tinsley?’

‘Yeah,’ He flops on the other side of the bed, his long legs stretched out to the floor. ‘At first, he was a little antisocial, but—‘

‘Did he say anything about me?’ Ricky asks eagerly, his eyes have a renewed brightness in them. 

Kwo Wey looks at him curiously before answering, ‘He was suspicious. He thought we were tricking him or something—‘

A wide smile spreads on the criminal’s face.

‘—and when I visited him in the coffeehouse just yesterday, he seemed really mad.’

Ricky quirks an eyebrow, ‘Coffeehouse?’

‘That’s where he works.’

‘Is that so?’ He rests his cheek on his palm, smiling even wider.

* * *

Tinsley wakes up with a hangover. When he goes outside, his cucumbers have gone yellow. He groans as he picks them, sighing disappointedly. He’s been neglecting his little farm for a while now and he can’t help feeling guilty. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to be a little late for work today, he takes the time to fix his crops, discarding those which have gone rotten or worse.

When he finally arrives for work, his coworker Doug is manning the counter, looking bored out of his mind. It’s barely nine in the morning, yet the coffeehouse looks empty. He flicks the newspaper that he’s reading just as a customer enters the establishment. Doug grumbles in annoyance and points accusingly at Tinsley, ‘You’re late.’ He greets the customer before turning to Tinsley again, ‘Where have you been?’

‘I could ask the same thing.’ He raises an eyebrow. 

He ignores him, ‘I had to haul ass this morning.’

‘That’s your job.’

‘ _Our_ job.’ He points out, while taking the customer’s order. He repeats the order to Tinsley, and he gets started on making an Americano. 

‘Our job also requires us to come in for work and not leave our coworkers on their own for three days.’ 

‘Touche, touche,’ Doug holds up his hands in surrender, ‘By the by, that man has been waiting for you since this morning.’ He says, pointing his lips at the direction, picking up his newspaper again. Tinsley snaps his head at that, almost dropping the cup of coffee when he spots the familiar, grey suit. 

_Son of a bitch._

He serves the coffee first before taking a deep breath to calm himself. He stomps to Goldsworth’s table, already feeling a migraine coming. The criminal is wearing a dumbass sunglasses and a trilby, face covered with a book. He rolls his eyes, surprised the idiot can actually read. He stops in front of his table, and clears his throat to catch his attention. Goldsworth still ignores him. 

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Tinsley finally asks, voice flat.

The criminal lowers his book, taking his sunglasses off to look at him up and down. He smiles, ‘Have to say, the apron suits you, darling.’

‘Funny,’ he deadpans, ‘Not only you sic your hitmen on me, now you’re lingering inside the place I’m working? Careful, Goldsworth, people might talk.’

‘Hitmen? I wouldn’t know anything about that.’ He slams the book close, leisurely leaning back and takes a sip of his black coffee. 

‘Cut the bullshit.’

Goldsworth looks around, and tilts his head at him, ‘You sure you wanna do this here?’

He gets up and walks away, heading for outside. Tinsley glares at the door before stomping outside, following suit, the uncomfortable, humid air hitting him with full force. It’s barely afternoon and the sun is already up and high in the sky. Several cars zoom by him on the street. When he turns, he sees Goldsworth at the alley right next to the coffee, leaning back against the wall and puffing out a smoke. 

‘You smoke, right?’ He raises his cigarette, balanced primly between two fingers. Tinsley shrugs, figuring _why not?_

He thinks Goldsworth will give him an actual cigarette, not have him take a drag of his own. He eyes it warily, but takes a puff anyway. He blows, feeling the nicotine reach his brain. Then, Goldsworth puts the cigarette on his mouth, taking a very long drag, not taking his eyes off of him. Somehow, he feels like he’s the one being watched rather than the other way around. Tinsley very determinedly stares back, not letting himself be deterred by his simmering gaze. 

Goldsworth speaks again, his dark eyes—black like ink—boring into his, ‘What are these hitmen you speak of?’

He looks at him, unimpressed. ‘Really?’

‘I really have nothing to do with it, cross my heart, sweetheart,’ He really does cross his heart, running his fingers on his chest and looking earnestly.

‘Let’s say I believe you, how the fuck did he know where I live, then? And why did he threaten when he knew I saved your sorry ass?’

Goldsworth chuckles, ‘Did he ask you a bunch-a annoying questions?’

‘Yeah. What—’

‘Oh, that’s just J.’

Tinsley pauses, then asks, ‘His name is… Jay?’

The shorter man laughs at his incredulous tone, ‘Oh no, the letter J.’

‘Right.’ _Because that made so much more sense_ , thinks Tinsley.

‘I don’t remember why they called him that,’ He muses, while blowing out a puff of smoke, ‘Don’t worry, he’s basically harmless. He won’t kill you,’ then as an afterthought, ‘I think.’

He hums dryly. 

‘I’ll talk to him.’

Tinsley just scoffs.

Goldsworth looks at him, as if disappointed by his reaction. Was he expecting a thanks from him? What would talking even do? The only way out for Tinsley in this if he moves to another country altogether, but he has a sinking suspicion he would find him there. 

The criminal slowly smiles, and steps on the cigarette he threw on the floor. Then, very casually he says, ‘You know, I’ve always been curious, how _did_ the Sodder case end?’

A sudden, hot flash of anger knocks the wind out of Tinsley and within the next second, he has Goldsworth pinned against with an arm on his neck. He hears the satisfying sound the shorter man’s head knocks on the wall, and he cranes his neck to look down at him, almost towering over him. Goldsworth is peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes, parted mouth panting gently. He’s certain he must be choking him, but he tilts his back to bare his neck even further, the action almost submissive but the look on his face assures him that it is anything but. Tinsley releases him but doesn’t move, almost spitting when he says, ‘You’re _sick_.’

Then he recoils back, glaring at the man. Goldsworth just laughs croakily, rubbing his neck soothingly. ‘That’s very rude.’

‘You disgust me, you know that, right?’ He continues, ‘But I still feel sorry for you. You’re sick in the head, and I don’t think you know it. You need psychological help, Goldsworth. You’re a psychopath. You kill people and you _enjoy_ it. That’s not fucking normal.’

‘Shut the hell up,’ He smiles, but his eyes go slant. Tinsley definitely hit a nerve, so he goes on.

‘Who fucked up, huh? Who made your childhood so horrible you choose to be like this? Was it daddy?’ Goldsworth was dangerously quiet. ‘Or mommy? I bet it was mommy. What did she do, not hug you—’

A sharp pain on his jaw takes him off guard, and he doubles over with a groan as the criminal knees him in the stomach. He kneels over as the throbbing pain on his face worsens, clutching his abdomen as he leans his palm on the concrete ground. Goldsworth takes a handful of his hair and pulls hard, forcing him to look up at him. Tinsley squints, the ray of the sun hitting his eyes, but he can still see the strangely calm expression on his face, ‘Don’t talk to me that way again, Tinman. I like you, but not _that_ much.’

He spits the coppery blood in his mouth, ‘Fuck you.’

Goldsworth just leers, before letting go of him and walking away. The sight of his black, pointed shoes is the last thing Tinsley sees before he closes his eyes and slumps back against the wall, hissing in agony. He stays like that for a couple of minutes before forcing himself to stand up and almost limping back to the coffeehouse, one hand still clenching at his aching abdomen. He quickly wipes the blood on his lip and adjusts the way he walks when he enters, only to find Doug napping behind the counter. Typical. 

Tinsley gets off at work later that day, enduring the pain until five-o-clock. To be frank, he’s certainly had worse. As soon as he gets home, he crashes on the couch and is out like a feather. He wakes up in the dead of the night due to the shooting pain in his stomach. He gets up to take a long shower, and takes a look at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, and his sandy hair is getting longer and shaggier. He stands there just staring at his reflection for God-knows-how-long before he snaps out of it. He checks his injuries, cringing slightly at the sight of reddish-yellow bruise on his stomach and the purple, almost blue bruise on his jaw. His fingers flit over it, careful not to press too hard. Goldsworth packs a mean, right hook, that’s for damn sure. Tinsley ices his wounds, alternating between his abdomen and face every time his arm would tire out. 

The next day, his injuries turn into a dull ache. As he gets ready for work, he takes a look at his reflection in the mirror once more. The bruise on his jaw has become a shade paler. He remembers the sight of Goldsworth’s flushed face, and parted mouth. Pupils dilated, breath coming in short gasps. 

Tinsley shuts his eyes close, trying to clear his mind. 

He arrives at the coffeehouse just on time, not surprised that Doug is nowhere to be seen. He serves the customers all the same, even organizes the workstation. The routine oddly soothes him, reminding him of his PI days. The way he would arrange stacks of folders, the clicking sound of keys when he would use the typewriter, the lingering smell of tobacco, ink, and coffee. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t miss it; the thrill of the chase. Being a PI was like stepping into a new, different world. Black and white didn’t exist, only gray did. It used to be only simple cases. Stolen possessions, scorned lovers, stuff like that but then he got employed to find a missing heiress. The case was kept hush-hush, due to her father’s fear of the tabloids finding out that the successor of a huge clothing line empire is supposedly. After months of hustling and bustling, Tinsley finds her inside a decrepit warehouse, tied and gagged. AFter returning the lost heiress to her father, he got a huge sum and his career skyrocketed to fame and glory. 

Then, George Sodder comes knocking on his door. The disappearance of the Sodder children was one of the biggest regrets of his life, and the last case he has ever taken as a PI. 

Tinsley is scrubbing the floor clean when the door swings open. ‘Good to see you working hard, Tinsley.’

He smiles before raising his head, ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’

Holly smiles teasingly, giving him a small hug, ‘What, I can’t visit you?’

He sets the mop aside. ‘You want anything?’

She nods, before sitting on a nearby stool while Tinsley prepares her cold brew. How ironic that he was thinking of his past life, and now like an addict itching for a fix, a fragment of it has come knocking on his door. He couldn’t begrudge Holly for doing so, she is a friend after all. And if this alleviates the longing he feels, then so be it. 

There is a comfortable silence after he hands her the drink, the slightly muffled noises of the busy street outside is enough to fill it in. After a few sips, she finally looks at him and speaks her mind, ‘Actually, I came here to ask you for something.’

‘Another one of your famous favors? Lay it on me.’

Holly seems to hesitate, ‘I need your help to take down a mob boss.’

Tinsley stares at her.

‘I know you said you’re done, but—’

‘No, Holly.’ He says.

‘—Listen, Tinsley,’ She stands up, wearing the same expression she has whenever she’s determined to get something. The last time he sees that, a Nazi almost tried to kill them. ‘The people in my department are a bunch of idiots. They’re not gonna get anything done, not like we did. I need you, please.’

‘I’m not going to do it,’ He turns his back, clenching his jaw. 

He hears her sigh. ‘Just think about it, OK?’

He doesn’t answer. 

* * *

A week later after his short rendezvous, Ricky is back home in Malibu, bored out of his mind. He rises from his comfortable bed, and opens his closet. Knives of various sizes are emblazoned on the wall, from daggers to balisongs to kirpans. He picks some of the throwing knives off one-by-one, and turns towards the wall, which is already littered with bullet holes and knife marks—all made by Ricky. There is a large tarp of target on the wall, and there’s a gaping hole on the bullseye. Mindlessly, Ricky throws the knives consecutively, never missing. 

‘Enrique,’ Comes a silvery, sotto voice from behind him. Ricky turns around, and is caught by surprise that he accidentally throws the last knife. Lucy Goldsworth doesn’t even so much as flinch when the knife comes careening towards her, almost nicking her ear. ‘What did I tell you about knives inside?’

‘Sorry, Mamá,’ He says sheepishly, immediately sitting down and straightening his back.

She has Ricky’s same dark hair, and dark eyes. Her raven hair is tied into a bun, her perky nose clashes with her protruding cheekbones, and dark red lips pressed into a thin line. She looks at him with the same jet-black eyes, cold as ice. Even if no words come out of her mouth, her displeasure is evident.

Ricky stares back, flushing his face for any type of emotion, ‘Why are you here, Mamá?’

‘Can I not visit my son?’

‘Of course. I just...’ He says softly, ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming.’

‘Do I need your permission?’ She blinks slowly, her thin, arched eyebrows shooting up.

‘No, Mamá.’

She walks around his room, seemingly analyzing every aspect of it. Her face is straight and unreadable, and it makes Ricky wonder if there's ever been a time where he could get even an inkling of what goes through his mother’s mind. 

‘I heard you’ve been having fun,’ Lucy speaks softly, ‘Too much fun.’

‘Ma…’ He stands up.

‘Need I remind you what happened the last time you let yourself…’ She pauses, as if thinking of the appropriate word. ‘…loose.’

Ricky freezes, but recovers quickly, giving his mother a confident smile. ‘I’ll try to tone it down.’

Lucy nods, like this is exactly what she wants to hear. Then, she sighs before stepping closer to him and leaning in, kissing him on the cheek, dark, red lipstick mark staining his cheek. He closes his eyes shakily, only opening them when his mother starts pulling away. ‘My boy,’ She whispers, and he returns it with a smile. 

She starts walking away, heading towards the door but suddenly pauses just as her hand touches the knob. She turns her head ever so slightly and asks, ‘Did you know Lugo had a child?’

Ricky shakes his head _no_ , looking at her straight in the eyes. ‘Poor kid.’

‘Hm.’ Is all she says before she gets out of the room.

His knees almost buckle down as he sits down. He eyes the decanter of brandy on his bedside table, he grabs it and takes a big gulp, foregoing the thought of even using a glass. The Cognac has gone cold and leaves a strong, sour taste in his mouth and he almost likes it. He drinks more, not caring even as it spills from his mouth. When he finally downs the whiskey, he’s breathing hard and fast, the alcohol filling his bloodstream swiftly like venom in his veins. Then when he runs out, he takes a cigarette from his pocket, lights it up, and takes a long inhale. Suddenly, his room feels suffocating, like its walls are trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs. He _needs_ to get out of here.

Ricky leaves his room, in a panicked daze. When he reaches the living room, he’s not surprised to find it empty as it always has been, no signs of his mother anywhere. As if she was merely a ghost that came to haunt him. He _needs_ to get out of here. 

When he peels his strangely sticky eyelids open, he looks at his surroundings and suddenly notices he’s not at home anymore. He blinks and jolts in surprise when he realizes that he’s at a bar, at _night_ , surrounded by people he doesn’t know, cradling a bottle of beer. He rubs his temples, and closes his itchy eyes. He’s done it again. 

He tries to stand up, but nearly falls over. After a few tries and apprehensive looks, he finally heads outside, mind buzzed with alcohol. Then, he starts walking. The street outside is strangely deserted, with tall trees skirting around the area, and no functioning street lights could be seen nearby. Before he knows it, he’s wobbling in front of a familiar fence. Somehow, he always ends up here. He sits near the bushes, raising the bottle he doesn’t know he’s still holding to his lips, groaning in annoyance when he realizes it’s empty. He throws it away, feeling a little satisfied watching the glass break into millions of pieces.

Ricky thinks he might be falling to sleep but then he hears a grousing yell behind him, ‘Who the hell is out there?’

He smiles instantly, ‘ _Hello_ , Tinman,’ He raises his head, so he could see him properly and enjoys the sight of his displeased—borderlining on murderous—glare. 

‘It’s two in the Goddamn morning,’ Tinsley stalks over to him, and he watches in fascination as his long, _long_ limbs move. As he moves closer, Ricky could see just how he towers over him, and he briefly wonders what it would be like to put his legs over his waist. ‘I’m not playing nurse again.’

He snorts, and tries to stand up but falls in his ass. Then, he giggles. 

He hears the taller man give a long-suffering sigh. ‘Are you _drunk?_ ’

Ricky’s smile widens, and he tilts his head to the side, ‘Why? What are you going to do with me?’

It’s Tinsley’s turn to snort, shaking his head in dry amusement. He tries to get up again but fails anyway, huffing in frustration. The ex-private eye rolls his eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, he gives him a hand, muttering, ‘Jesus, you stink, Goldsworth,’ He swings an arm to his side to keep him steady, letting the criminal lean to him as they both stumble to the house. Tinsley opens the door with his free hand and pushes him to the couch, burying his flushed face on the arm of the couch. He takes off his jacket, which is characteristically rumpled. His white shirt is damp with sweat, and his chest is almost exposed. His baggy eyes are closed, and he’s breathing softly. 

The taller man looks upwards and sighs, which seems to be a common occurrence whenever Ricky’s around. He hears his footsteps trudge around, and he’s about to fall into a deep sleep when he is jerked awake by Tinsley’s tap on his shoulder. ‘Here, drink this.’

It’s water. He opens his mouth, nose turning by the sour smell of his breath, and gulps greedily. He hadn’t realized he’d been so thirsty. 

‘You better get the hell out in the morning,’ Tinsley says tiredly before walking back to his room. 

‘Do you have a brother, Tinman?’ It isn’t the randomness of the question that piques his curiosity, it’s the way his voice had turned soft, almost as if like a child’s.

He turns, leaning against the doorframe, watching the criminal toy with the now empty glass. ‘No.’ He says.

‘Sister?’

‘Only child.’

‘Ah,’ The glass rests simply on his palm, and he’s looking at it and at the same time, he’s not really seeing it. ‘I had a brother.’

Tinsley frowns. _Had?_

‘You know, when we were younger, we would always fight. Clothes, toys, you name it. He was my fa—‘ He gulps, blinks once, twice before continuing, ‘—my father’s favorite, and I was my mother’s. One day, my father gave my brother this beautiful pianoforte. I didn’t think too much of it at first but then my mother said that he didn’t deserve that gift, and that I was older so I have the right to be angry. I wasn’t, but when she said it, all of a sudden I was.’

The taller man remains silent, not knowing what to feel about this new side of Goldsworth.

‘Because I was so jealous, I destroyed it. I took a hammer from the basement and pound it into pieces,’ He settles the glass on his lap, ‘He cried that day. My father was furious. My mother didn’t say anything.’

Tinsley notices his hands tighten on the glass, ‘She’s always been this fucking voice inside my head. It’s like I can’t say no to her. I hate it,’ Tears fall from Ricky’s red-rimmed eyes, and he’s shaking and gritting his teeth when he says, ‘God, I fucking hate her.’ 

Tinsley doesn’t know what to say, so he purses his mouth and just listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait!!! also yay the plot is kicking in!
> 
> that ‘i like you but not that much’ was from killing eve 😳 dont come for me. and yeah ricky collects knives… he seems the type. also dang writing lucy goldsworth for the first time took a lot out of me. 
> 
> doug is based off keith btw!!
> 
> thank you for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> title is from africa by toto
> 
> come scream about tinsworth with me on [tumblr!](https://kamwashere.tumblr.com)


End file.
